


We Are Made For Better Days

by Greenlips24



Series: 'Tis Hate and Fate that Vengeance Seeks [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, some implied violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 06:35:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 19,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10406115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greenlips24/pseuds/Greenlips24
Summary: Sequel toFour Is A Bond Now Broken; set some six months later, where we learn the "who" and the "why" backstory.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to **Four Is A Bond Now Broken** ; set some six months later, where we learn the "who" and the "why" backstory.

**CHAPTER ONE – A Question of Honour**

Athos’s room, evening:

Athos sits quietly looking at d’Artagnan, across the table they share.

The light from the large candle he had lit earlier plays across his face and reflects in his eyes, as he looks warmly at the young man.

“Have I told you that I am proud of you?” he says quietly.

“Don’t.”

Athos frowns.

“You’re saying goodbye.”

**oOo**

**One week earlier:**

Athos worked steadily in the stable, readying his horse for the short journey to the Palace later that day. He had a habit of brushing Roger himself before each ride, and kept the brush on the shelf in Roger’s stall, where it was acknowledged that no-one should touch it, but him. He turned mid stroke as he heard someone behind him.

A fellow Musketeer stood watching him. Athos could not place him at first but knew he had certainly seen him around the Garrison, though he had not actually engaged with him before.

“I did not mean to disturb you, Lieutenant” said the man. He was taller than Athos, with prematurely greying hair, a grey beard and deep lines either side of his nose running down to the corners of his mouth. What looked like a permanent frown marked his brow.

Athos returned to brushing the stallion, which was growing restless from the lack of attention.

“I am not disturbed, ...?” Athos murmured, turning and raising an eyebrow in enquiry.

“LeSavage.”

“Ah, yes, my apologies.” Athos silently chided himself at his rudeness for not knowing the man’s name.

“You cannot be expected to know all the men by name. I expect you recognise them by skill,” LeSavage answered, walking past Athos to the back of the stable.

“And I have been on light duties for some weeks, so our paths have not crossed,” he added, picking up a broom.

Athos stopped brushing and turned around to look at him. He placed him now, he was the ex-mercenary Treville had employed a several months ago. Aramis had told him about their encounter outside the paper merchants, when they had wrongly suspected the man was involved in his disappearance during the summer. He shuddered slightly as he thought of that time, up until now pushed firmly to the back of his mind, only remembered now when he caught sight of the faint mark on his eyebrow.

Athos did not really want to get into a long conversation with the man, but he was curious.

“Tell me, why did you seek a commission with The Musketeers?” Athos therefore found himself asking.

“I was drawn to the notion of honour,” the man replied.

Athos could not catch the tone, but it was not altogether warm. He shifted to pick up his saddle and throw in over the stallion’s back.

“Yet, you fought for money?” Athos said, picking up the bridle from the post.

“I did not have a fine estate to fall back on,” LeSavage said, not shifting his gaze from Athos.

Athos tilted his head at that, absorbing the barbed reply.

“So you chose to kill indiscriminately, for payment?” Athos continued, stung by the insinuation of a man who did not know him.

”Are we so dissimilar, you and I?” LeSavage asked Athos.

Athos paused and looked at the ground, steadying his breathing.

“I do not kill lightly” Athos said, his voice low with anger.

“But you are a trained killer. You kill viciously, you kill with no concern as to your victim’s family, and you follow orders and kill for others when it is not your battle,” 

“I wonder where the honour is in that.” he added, with a smile, conscious that he had maybe taken this too far.

Athos could only partly agree with that statement, but remained silent.

LeSavage walked past him then, turning once more to look at Athos.

“Pay me no mind; I am resigning my commission shortly. This notion of honour is not one I recognise, but I _am_ bound by duty, and will leave when I have fulfilled that.”

Athos watched LeSavage’s back thoughtfully as he left the stable.

It had not been a comfortable conversation.

To be continued ...


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

**Five Years Earlier:**

Matthew LeSavage frequented the lottery and gaming houses of Paris on a regular basis. He had seen fortunes won at the tables, and fortunes destroyed. He had had his share of misfortune. That did not deter him, as he was a weak man. Tonight seemed to be an all too familiar repetition of his current losing streak.

He had spent his life in the shadow of his older brother, Gerard, watching as he made his way in life. It was a simple life, true, but although Gerard worked for it, Matthew discounted his effort and grew jealous as his brother set up a home of his own. His feelings were compounded when Gerard brought his bride to his new home to share his life.

He had loved Celeste from the moment he saw her. Desired, more like, his thoughts not always honourable.

The man across the gaming table was becoming irritated. Matthew owed him a considerable amount of money from previous losses and had so far made no attempt to repay him. His temper flared when Matthew merely shrugged at his latest loss.

“You owe me a large amount now, LeSavage.”

“You’ll get it – when I am ready,” he replied, drunk now, his senses dulled.

He pushed himself up from the table, threw the remaining cards down and laughed in the man’s face as he lumbered away.

He did not see the man follow him out of the Tavern, but was suddenly spun around to face him in the alley.

The man was a known thug, and he had had enough.

“Take heed, LeSavage, pay your debts, or this is just the start.”

Matthew LeSavage was too drunk to see the man move, and too late to defend himself.

The blow was vicious, and he staggered away, clutching his hand to his destroyed eye, blood seeping through his fingers.

Celeste had recoiled when she first saw his face. Never easy in his company and aware of his predilection for gambling and fighting, she quietly made herself scarce from his presence. Sensing her unease, Gerard offered his brother fewer opportunities to visit them, and their relationship became strained.

When Gerard was paid a visit by a man demanding payment for his brother’s debts, he had little choice. This man was at his home, staring through the door at his wife and daughter. He did the honourable thing and gave the man their savings.

_Six Months Later:_

The soldiers arrive at dawn.

She sees the flash of their red capes.

She hears them roaming around the house.

She smells them.

They are getting closer. She hears their heavy tread on the stair.

The door bangs open, and she flinches violently.

“Well, what have we here?” one of them says.

She looks at them, but does not see them. She cannot allow herself to form an image of these men.

She pulls their young daughter to her and turns her face firmly into her, so she too does not see the terrible faces of these men.

Her eyes move then from one to the other, and her blood runs cold, knowing now what lies ahead. She closes her eyes and thinks of Gerard and whispers to her daughter what she hopes are comforting words.

But the air is rent with a shrill shriek as her daughter is torn from her grasp, and she knows then, that she will fight, but it will be futile.

**oOo**

Gerard had done the honourable thing. He had paid his brother’s gambling debts. But now, he faces eviction, as he has failed in the upkeep of their home. His house and land would now be taken by the noble landowner, a permanent at Court, now eager to take it back to curry favour with the King.

Worse, his brother has fled and left him to his fate. 

His appeal has fallen on deaf ears.

He turns his horse for his sad journey back to his wife and daughter.

He is too late. His home is not destroyed; they would not do that, it is wanted for the coffers of the King. But the door is open wide. He falls from his horse and staggers toward the house, his own blood chilling him now.

He finds his voice, but it is not one he recognises.

He is shouting now, running wildly from room to room, before staggering to the stairs.

 _“Celeste!”_ he shouts, staring up at the landing.

It is deathly quiet.

He forces heavy legs up the stairs, so many stairs, before falling onto the landing.

Ahead is their bedroom.

He is whimpering now.

He places his palm on the door, before pushing it open.

He screams.

**oOo**

After he had buried what was left of his defiled wife and once beautiful daughter, he made his way to Spain. He abandoned the country of his birth, which was now festering in hate and intolerance, ruled by a weak King in thrall to a power hungry Cardinal. Mad with grief, he vowed to fight the French nobility, and any who held honour above humanity.

He slashed and burned his way across his homeland, paid by those with their own scores to settle. He wondered what insanity was, but had no doubt that he was spiralling into its open arms. The path he was taking was slowly erasing what little humanity he himself still held.

To be continued ...


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

**Present**

“You four - up here, now!”

“He sounds ‘appy,” muttered Porthos, throwing the uneaten bread back down on his plate.

They all rose as one and fell into line taking the stairs, with Athos at the front, and Porthos at the rear chewing the cheese he had grabbed as they moved away from the table. He clapped his hand on Aramis’s shoulder in front of him, almost sending the man cannoning into d’Artagnan. Athos paused, turned round and gave them his most withering of withering looks.

“Sorry,” Porthos called from the back, not sounding entirely sincere.

Athos sighed and knocked on the Captain’s door.

One inside and lined up quietly, Treville picked up a paper from his desk and standing, gave them a stern look, having seen their antics through his window.

“Gentleman, we have had reports of a Catholic priest, who resides south of Notre Dame. There are suspicions that he is working for Spain in some way. We know he fell foul of Cardinal Richelieu but after the Cardinal’s death, this man disappeared. However, his name came up in a communiqué that was taken from a group of mercenaries who crossed the border recently.”

He pushed a piece of paper across the table at them.

“Go to this address, last known, and find out what you can from him. I want to know what he is doing. Don’t give anything away; just say his neighbours are suspicious of him and that you have the King’s safety as your primary concern.”

“The priest’s name is Father Urbain Barre.”

They took a steady ride to the address given them. Looking around for the right door, Porthos’s eyes strayed upward. They followed his gaze and all looked up at the black wooden tower, perched over a semi derelict stone building.

“It would be at the top,” Porthos grumbled, throwing in a sigh for good measure.

Trudging up the winding wooden staircase, Porthos resisted the urge to push Aramis into d’Artagnan again, still feeling the effects of the stare it had earned him earlier.

Reaching the door, Athos took out his dagger and gave three sharp raps on the wood with the pommel.

“Knuckles not good enough?” said Aramis with a smile.

“I like to be heard,” came the laconic reply.

The door was opened after several locks were turned, and a bolt shifted.

A tall man of some forty years threw open the door. He was dressed in simply in black and although he had a metal chain around his neck, there was no crucifix hanging from it. He wore a number of metal rings on his fingers, neither gold nor silver. Taking in the four uniformed men crowded outside his door, he turned and moved back into the room with an audible sigh.

Betrayed by a badly broken nose, his face had once perhaps been kind, but it now seemed to have settled into the pinched, haunted mask of a man unfulfilled. His eyes feverishly flitted over his papers, picking one up and then tossing it aside.

“Are you Father Urbain Barre?” Athos asked, stepping through the door whilst removing his gloves, followed by his three companions.

“Yes, what do you want?” the man replied, seemingly annoyed at being interrupted. He turned his back on them and crossed the floor to one of his shelves, where he began shuffling papers.

In the quiet few moments that followed, they looked around the room.

It was circular, and surprisingly large; all mellow wood, dimly but warmly lit by an array of tallow candles, emitting unusual aromas. There were four small windows high in the eaves, spaced evenly around the circular turret. Shelves ranged around the walls, holding all manner of books, bottles, and artefacts. A large old wooden table stood in the centre, strewn with papers, gutted candles, bowls and bottles of powders; all evidence of a mind absorbed with experimentation and discovery. Aramis was fascinated, not least because this was a Man of God, whose pursuits did not seem in keeping with his chosen vocation. He was eager to learn more.

Athos stepped forward toward him, and cleared his throat.

“We are the King’s Musketeers, Father Barre, “here to ask you a few questions, if we may,” he said, courteously.

“What are they saying about me now?” he grunted, picking up the papers he had been looking for and laying them on the pages of a large heavy book, before slamming it shut.

The Musketeers looked at each other before turning back to the priest.

Aramis leant forward and tilted his head toward to man,

“Father, what do you think they are saying?” he said, kindly.

Barre snorted,

“They can say what they like. I am here of my own free will. I answer to no man.”

“Not to God?” asked Aramis, quietly.

Barre slammed his hand flat on the table.

“It does not matter! I am no longer of the faith.”

“How so?” asked Athos, surprised at the man’s quick reaction.

Barre met his gaze evenly.

“I would not do the Cardinal’s bidding,” said Fr Barre simply.

“And because of this, you have turned your back on France?” d’Artagnan ventured, unable to help himself.

Athos gave him a look that said he had gone too far, they did not want this man to know they knew of his association with Spanish mercenaries. Barre, though, seemed oblivious to this line of questions.

“Richelieu prided himself on doing what he did “for France,” Barre spat out;

“Yet his intolerance was beyond measure. His lack of concern for the poor was legendary. I think he would even have killed the Royal Family if his so called duty called him to do so.”

“We were no allies of the Cardinal, Father,” said Aramis.

Athos moved toward the table.

“What do you do here?” he asked, picking up a small silver bowl which contained a white powder.

Barre leant forward and took it from him and put in on a shelf behind him.

“I am an Alchemist,” he replied, haughtily. “And the term “Father” is redundant, as I have already informed you,” he added for good measure.

”You seek to turn metal into gold?” asked Porthos, casting his eyes around the table. He had heard many stories of men seeking riches through the pursuit of such dreams.

“A foolish term,” Barre spat out, contemptuously.

He drew himself up and looked Porthos in the eye.

“I am seeking the creation of a panacea to cure disease,” he replied.

“You are a champion of the poor?” Athos asked him.

Barre snorted then, and gave a bitter laugh.

“Perhaps once,” he said and turned away.

Barre could not resist giving these men a demonstration. They would be ignorant of what he was doing here. So, putting two liquids and an unknown compound into a bowl, he swirled it around, and a few moments later, a white vapour arose from the bowl.

In this instance, it was harmless and odourless and so, they were not suspicious. He knew that, had he added a further liquid, however, it would be another matter. It would be deadly. But he had not perfected his process. He estimated it would take some time, but was confident he would accomplish his task in time for a likely war with Spain.

Barre had started out with a noble cause but Richelieu despised his attempts to help the poor and wanted him thrown out of the church as a trouble maker, believing him to be guilty of insurrection and aiding political prisoners to escape. He recognised the danger he was in and made the choice to renounce the church; he could no longer support an institution that countenanced the evil that was Richelieu. And he had paid a heavy price that made his decision easier.

Instead, he fell in with the Spanish and decided to develop weapons for the battle field, to destroy the French armies, when the time came for war.

He had poured over the Hermetic texts procured by Cosimo de Medici who had sent agents out to Pistoia in pursuit of the lost ancient writings. These texts dated back to the 2nd and 3rd centuries AD. Evidence showed there existed before the beginning of the Christian era in Alexandria a secret society, who called themselves “The Brethren”. They greeted each other with a secret kiss, celebrated with a sacred meal and read the Hermetic writings. These contained the Three Parts of the Wisdom of the Universe, one of which was Alchemy. 

He had became both fascinated and fanatical with the various stages of alchemy, particularly of chemical distillation and fermentation, amongst other things.

His aim was to develop gas bombs that would destroy huge numbers of soldiers. As a by-product, he fell upon a slow acting poison, tested on resident rats in the building below. This substance would be much more efficient in delivering death to the enemy than bombs thrown erratically. He wished only that Richelieu’s soldiers would die. Fortunately, after Richelieu’s death, he was able to shut himself away and work on his project, almost certain that the foolish King Louis would eventually take France into war with Spain. What a surprise the French would get.

After they had left the building, Athos, somewhat troubled, turned to his brothers.

“What do you think he is really making up there?” he said.

“Nothin’ good,” Porthos muttered.

“Did you notice,” d’Artagnan said quietly, “he had no fingernails on his left hand.”

Aramis shuddered.

To be continued ...


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

On their way back to the Garrison, they stopped at The Wren for sustenance and a chance to discuss their thoughts; Barre had given them a demonstration of a substance that emitted a white, odourless vapour, but they had seen no evidence that it was anything other than a stage in his process towards the said panacea he had claimed he was developing to help cure disease.

On their return, they reported to Treville, or rather, reported that they had little to report. It was agreed that they would keep a watchful eye on the good “Father,” as they were all uneasy about this self absorbed man.

**oOo**

Not long after the Musketeers had left, another climbed the stairs to Barre’s domain. Handing over a bag of money, this man was also given a demonstration of Barre’s current progress. He was not interested in waiting until these bombs were perfected however. He took possession of a draught of the by-product. Whilst Barre’s back was turned, he also took possession of the formula, so proudly shown to him by the preening man.

**oOo**

Life in the Garrison continued as usual. Athos had occasion to roll his eyes at his brother’s irreverent banter and made a note to straighten out their ever increasingly lax attitude. They were bored, he knew. He himself had spent more than enough time in the stables brushing his large black stallion, which was equally bored and also well able to roll his eyes in the same way as his master.

So it was with welcome anticipation that they answered Captain Treville’s call back into his office with news of a new mission.

With no repeat of the incident on the stairs, they all made it into his office in a dignified way and lined up in front of their Captain’s desk.

It was a mission to deliver eviction notices to several homesteads on behalf of the King. This was not a task they relished, but it was their duty to carry out the wishes of the State. Previously, it had been the remit of the Red Guard, but following the Cardinal’s death, King Louis seemed somewhat erratic in his allocation of tasks for his Musketeers. True to recent form, Porthos, Aramis and d’Artagnan had begun to make their disappointment known to Treville, when a sudden movement at the end of their line alerted them, and they turned.

Something was not right with Athos.

Frozen to the spot at the unexpected disturbance, they watched him falling, his balance completely gone, a look on his face that turned into confusion, and then pain. 

Reaching for the corner of Treville’s desk, he missed his hold completely and landed heavily on the floor and in that same instance, his body curled up and he made a terrible animal sound as he wrapped his arms around himself.

Everyone suddenly came alive then, shocked from their stupor.

Aramis had been standing next to Athos, and unconsciously had almost caught him as he fell, but now he dropped to his knees and tried to grab Athos’s shoulders.

“Mon Ami, what is it?” he cried, starting now to rub his back. But Athos was not hearing, lost in pain as his body spasmed and he began desperately trying to pull air into his lungs.

“Breathe, Athos!” Aramis said urgently, but to no avail.

He shouted for Porthos to go for Dr Lemay but Porthos was already half way out of the door without a backward glance.

**oOo**

For a large man, Porthos reached Lemay’s house in record time. No-one had dared get in his way.

Lemay opened the door to frantic hammering, coming face to face with Porthos’s chest.

“I am Porthos du Vallon,” he panted.

“I know who you are Musketeer; who needs my help?”

“Athos, our Lieutenant.”

They quickly beat a path back to the Garrison, rushing up the stairs and into Treville’s office.

Only to find Athos had recovered and was now sitting quietly in a chair, sipping water.

Dr Lemay was somewhat annoyed at being dragged through the streets to a non-existent emergency.

**oOo**

**The next day:**

Aramis had insisted that Athos stay in a room at the Garrison after his collapse the previous day. Athos had argued, preferring his own room but in the end had relented, mainly to quieten his friend. Athos was still asleep when Aramis strode in and threw open his shutters with a flourish, allowing the morning sun to flood into the room.

Walking over to his sleeping friend, Aramis frowned. It was unusual that Athos was still asleep as he usually slept lightly and rose early. Pouring a glass of water, he walked quietly over and sat on his bed.

“Hey, come on you, time you were up,” he said with a smile in his voice.

Athos opened his eyes and peered up at Aramis, taking the glass of water handed to him.

His movements seemed sluggish though, and when he asked if the shutters could be opened as it was dim and he could not see Aramis properly, Aramis was more than a little concerned. He looked around toward the window. The shutters were indeed wide open still, and the sun was streaming in.

Just then, Athos grimaced, and complained of a sharp pain in his ear, but it is over as soon as it happened. He seemed to fall asleep then, his hand curled under his chin, but woke a few moments later and looked at Aramis as if he was seeing him for the first time. His eyes were clear now.

“Good morning,” he said grumpily to Aramis; “What are you doing here?”

Aramis frowned, uncomprehending.

Athos did not seem to remember their conversation a few minutes before.

“I was worried about you Mon Ami,” Aramis said softly, catching sight of the hand resting near his throat. There was an angry looking red welt across his knuckles. Aramis took his friend’s hand in his own and studied it. Turning it over, he was surprised to see red blotches on the palm.

“How did you get this?” he asked.

Athos shrugged, non-committantly, pulling himself up against his pillows.

He looked around then, frowning.

“What am I doing here?” he said quietly.

He seemed to have no recollection of what had happened.

To be continued ...


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**Later that morning:**

Dr Lemay was expected at the Garrison to follow up on Athos.

Aramis had spent much of the morning pacing up and down within the Garrison archway, awaiting his arrival. When the doctor at last appeared, he found the tense Musketeer waiting for him.

Ushered hurriedly into the room, Dr Lemay sat next to Athos, who was now dressed and sitting on the edge of his bed, obviously eager to leave and wondering what all the fuss was about. Aramis indicated the red welt on Athos’s hand, and Lemay took it in his own, and then turned it over and examined his palm.

Taking a small scalpel from his bag, he took a scraping of the skin, which he would examine later at his surgery when he had the right mixtures that would help in its analysis. He pulled open each of Athos’s eyelids and looked at his pupils, and the whites of his eyes. He seemed thoughtful.

“How do you feel after yesterday?” he asked.

Athos was confused; he did not seem to understand the question.

“Do you remember you collapsed?” Lemay ventured tentatively.

Athos looked at Aramis in confusion. Aramis raised his eyebrows and turned to look at d’Artagnan and Porthos, now standing in the doorway, having seen Dr Lemay arrive.

The doctor peered intently at Athos.

“Athos, what day is this?”

Athos struggled to answer.

“What is my name?”

Again, Athos frowned.

Aramis again exchanged a worried glance with Porthos and d’Artagnan, who both frowned in reply, shaking their heads slightly.

After a few moments of thought Athos brightened, and said, “You are the King’s Physician.”

It was now Lemay’s turn to frown.

“I am also the Garrison Physician,” he replied gently.

Athos did not respond, but Aramis could see his friend was struggling to comprehend.

The doctor sat back then, aware something was not quite right, and feeling the strained atmosphere in the room. Realising he would get no more from Athos. He rose and collected his bag and samples and made ready to leave.

Porthos walked across and took hold of Athos’s shoulders and hauled him up off the bed.

“Breakfast,” he said firmly, pulling Athos toward the door.

Athos allowed himself to be led but then reaching the door, he pushed himself away from Porthos and half turned, looking back over his shoulder at the physician, a look of sudden recognition on his face.

“Lemay...you are Dr Lemay,” he said, before Porthos pulled him through the door and down the stairs.

**oOo**

**That afternoon:**

Treville sat at his desk waiting for his men, his heart heavy. He heard their familiar steps on the stairs and drew in a breath, looking across at Dr Lemay who was standing by the window.

There was a knock on the door, and Treville straightened and took a breath.

“Enter” he said, watching as they streamed in; Athos in the lead as always.

They came in quietly, acknowledging the presence of the doctor, surprised he had returned so quickly.

“Gentlemen...Athos,” Treville said, looking down at his hands.

After a brief moment, Treville scrubbed his hand across his face and glanced toward Lemay.

“There is no easy way to say this, but it seems Athos, that you have been poisoned.”

An audible gasp came from d’Artagnan, followed by a stunned silence.

Athos, in his usual way, merely frowned.

“Say what, Captain?” Porthos growled.

It was Dr Lemay who spoke next, putting a hand on Treville’s arm.

“It’s unprecedented,” he began, taking over, and directing himself to Athos.

“I have not seen anything like this. From the abrasion on your hand, I have detected a compound of some sort that appears to have been absorbed into your system. It is obviously not fast acting, or you would be dead by now,” he paused, aware he had been somewhat harsh, given the friendship between these men.

Athos was now standing with his hand up to his mouth, absently stroking his beard, lost in thought.

“Is it plant based?” asked Aramis.

“Perhaps,” Lemay replied,

“Like I said, it’s unprecedented. It appears to contain a mineral similar to metal. I have searched my medical volumes and can find no references that are helpful.”

“Wait, did you say metal?” said Aramis softly.

“Yes, although no metal I have ever seen before.” Lemay finished.

“As in Alchemy?” Aramis said, looking across at Athos; both thinking about the metal chain and rings the priest wore.

“Why, yes, I suppose so,” replied Lemay, feeling somewhat more enlightened to a mystery he had been hopelessly wrestling with.

Athos’s voice jolted them out of their stunned silence.

“How long?”

Lemay was silent for a few moments, collecting his thoughts.

“I do not know. It depends on how much has been absorbed. As I said it seems to be slow acting, judging by the time from your collapse yesterday. We will have to wait for further symptoms before we can make a judgement.”

“There is nothing you can do?!” asked d’Artagnan, a plea directed to Lemay.

“Nothing,” Lemay said, unable to meet their eyes.

**oOo**

Later, they all sat in silence at their table in the yard, all lost in their own thoughts. d’Artagnan, never one to sit still for long, was quickly giving way to the adrenaline he could feel coursing through his body.

“This is not happening; it can’t be happening!” he cried, jumping to his feet, but not knowing quite what to do.

“Be calm, d’Artagnan,” Athos said quietly, reaching up and putting his hand on the young man’s forearm,

“I have courted death many times. For five long years I looked into its gaping jaws.”

He looked at d’Artagnan.

“But then, I found it wanting.”

He smiled fondly at this young man who had come crashing into his life, duty bound to honour his father. Just as he, himself, was duty bound to honour Thomas. He marvelled again at how similar they were.

“Come,” he said, “You need to practice.” He took hold of d’Artagnan’s arm and guided him to the sparring area.

Porthos and Aramis remained at their table, watching quietly.

“I cannot imagine how he feels – I don’t think I could ‘andle it,” said Porthos tearfully, watching his brother guiding the young man’s swordwork.

“If anyone of us were to bear this bravely, it would be him.” Aramis replied quietly, his heart swelling as he watched his two brothers, lost in swordplay.

On any other day, this was their normality which he knew, Athos now sought to preserve.

But they were all aware, that everything had changed.

To be continued ...


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX**

The afternoon passed by slowly. Athos was determined to keep d’Artagnan occupied, putting him through a range of drills until the young man tired, and he took pity on him. Once they broke for food, Athos slipped quietly away.

He was soon missed by Aramis, who instinctively made his way to his friend’s own room, a ten minute walk from the Garrison. Climbing the stairs and gently pushing open the door, sure enough, he found Athos standing at his window, his forehead pressed against the glass, his arms wrapped around himself.

Aramis moved quietly into the room. If Athos heard him, he did not move.

“You are hiding from us, my friend. Please come back to your room at the Garrison,” Aramis said gently. He needed his brother to be close to the Infirmary, but did not voice this.

Athos remained thoughtful, but he sighed.

“I do not want you to see my decline,” he said quietly, without turning around.

Aramis looked around his room.

“It’s never bothered you before,” Aramis replied.

Athos smiled at that, and stretched out his arm. Aramis stepped forward and slid his arm around Athos’s waist, then reached up and put his hand companionably on his shoulder. They stood in silence, watching the activity in the street below them.

“We do not know how this will play out, Mon Cher,” whispered Aramis, desperately hoping it was all a terrible mistake.

**oOo**

Later that afternoon though, Aramis was left under no illusion that the position was deadly serious.

Treville called them up to his office and again, Athos took the lead. This time it was a more sombre ascent. Halfway up the stairs, however, Athos suddenly collapsed. It caught them totally by surprise. They could not move him; he was rigid with pain, his hand tight on the balustrade.

They panicked, trying to help him, desperate as he clenched his jaw, his breath hissing through his teeth. Porthos moved further up the stairs to make room for Aramis, who pulled Athos into a tight embrace, sitting next to him on the step; willing his brother’s pain to transfer into himself, knowing it was a futile hope. d’Artagnan stood on the stair below them, holding onto the balustrade himself, unable to help, but needing support. Captain Treville appears on the balcony above them, equally helpless, but waving off those men gathering below who had been startled by the activity.

It had suddenly become very real.

Athos pushed himself further into Aramis, who tightened his grip ever further as the spasms continued to roll through his body. But Athos would not give in, would not cry out, and so allowed himself the welcome comfort of oblivion, finally going limp.

He woke up in the Infirmary, flat on his back, staring up at an impressive crack in the ceiling.

Aramis came into view, thankfully obscuring the offending ceiling.

“How do you feel?”

“How do I look?”

“You want an answer?” Porthos said, coming into view as well,

“You’ve looked better,” he chuckled, reaching down and patting his arm, wary of hurting him.

Later, when everyone had left and Athos stood wearilly on his feet, moving around the room picking up his possessions, Porthos returned and stood in the doorway, watching him.

Feeling the big man’s eyes on him, Athos did not turn, but stopped what he was doing.

“Porthos, speak to me. Please.” he murmured.

Porthos took a step forward into the room.

“Promise me somethin’” he said.

“If I can,” Athos replied cautiously, always one for honouring his word but not giving it lightly.

“Promise me you’ll stay.”

Athos stopped what he was doing and stood perfectly still.

“I cannot do that,” he replied, softly.

“No, I don’t mean .....” Porthos could not say it. He took a breath,

“I mean, promise me you won’t disappear.”

_He is asking if we can say goodbye together; that I won’t go where they cannot find me. That I won’t die alone._

“I promise, on my honour,” Athos said, glad of the comfort it gave him.

Athos reached out his hand behind him without turning and Porthos stepped forward and took it.

**oOo**

**GERARD LeSAVAGE:**

He had nurtured his anger for months.

Then, on that morning, he had challenged Athos on his notion of honour. He had seen only someone _doing his duty;_ following orders.

He had watched during those months as Athos had spent hours with d’Artagnan, just as he had spent time with his own brother, Matthew, when he was a boy, he thought bitterly.

But it was the evictions. When the King started to charge his Musketeers with evictions, he knew he would resign his commission and return once more to the life of a soldier of fortune.

He had bided his time after the debacle in the Forest of Compiegne. They should have all died there, but they had help, he knew. An assassin who came in the night, and slit the throats of his men. No matter, he had no regard for those men, but the anger had burned brightly in him.

He had wanted to break these Musketeers - and had watched as each note was delivered; saw how they were destroyed a little more each day, piece by piece.

He had then let his anger at failing to destroy them fester for six months, watching and waiting. Until Louis had ordered his _honourable_ Musketeers to turn honest people from their homes to an unknown fate, merely to please his nobles; equally to swell his coffers.

His grip on reality was slipping, he knew. He was blinded by his need for vengeance on the nobles of France, their King and all they stood for.

He would kill them all now.

Then he had discovered the poison.

The Priest had reappeared in Paris. He had seen him before, had seen him skulking among his fellow mercenaries. There was talk of what he was trying to develop. He knew the priest was working against France. It was perfect; he would kill the Musketeers, starting with their “noble” Lieutenant. He would die first, and then he would send them all to Hell, one by one.

To be continued ...


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

When, at his insistence, Athos had left the Garrison and returned to his own rooms, Porthos went back into the Infirmary in search of Aramis. He found him sitting slumped on a chair in the corner of the empty room, lost in thought. Reading his body language, he let him be, content to sit on the edge of the bed until Aramis came back to himself.

For his part, Aramis had many personas; he was a lover, a carer, a fighter, even a clown, when needed. He could slip in and out of his different personas with ease. But this time he couldn’t find a reference.

He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be.

Because this was beyond him.

And he was terrified.

So he sat shaking in the corner, aware of Porthos’s presence now, but unable to acknowledge him yet.

He was lost in the memory of what had happened; he could still feel the pressure of his brother’s fingers as he had grabbed hold of his arms; still feel it as though he were still pressed against him. He suddenly stood, and hurriedly shrugged off his jacket, imagining the indentations in the leather still. Needing to rid himself of the feeling, in itself an act of betrayal, he fleetingly conceded. His eyes flickered around the room, whilst trying to gather in his emotions, his hand raking carelessly through his hair. He started to shake his head then, and his breathing became ragged.

And then Porthos was in front of him, crouching to his level, with his hand pressed firmly on his chest.

“Breathe, ‘Mis”, he rumbled, “It’s alright to be scared.”

Aramis’s eyes raked across his face.

_How well he knows me._

“This is beyond me,” he whispered, unable to hold his gaze, suddenly unsure.

Porthos sniffed, and nodded his head.

“That’s why he ‘as the King’s Physician to look after ‘im,” he said with a gentle smile.

Aramis raised his head then, and looked at him,

“Even if he doesn’t remember him...” he whispered, but smiled faintly back.

At that moment, he looked past Porthos, as a shaft of sunlight pushed into the room through the half open shutters, and found its way to blaze on the metal crucifix that Aramis had pinned there many months ago.

Aramis was transfixed then, as though the bright light was filling his very soul, bearing witness to his faith.

The brief precious moment was broken as Porthos shifted, unaware of the spectacle on the wall behind him, and the spell was broken.

But Aramis was calmer.

**oOo**

The following day, Aramis found himself again climbing the stairs to Athos’s door, in search of his errant friend. His heart sank to his boots when he heard the noise of destruction coming from inside. Athos’s mood had obviously darkened. Aramis took a shaky breath and opened the door, only to see a drunken Athos smashing empty bottles at the wall. As he prepared to throw a chair across the room, he saw Aramis in the doorway and stopped, looking coldly at him.

“What?!” he roared.

“This is not the way, brother.” Aramis said, taking two steps toward him, but wary of going closer, aware of his temper, and the chair he was holding.

“It’s real, Aramis,” Athos yelled,

“I am finished!”

He dropped the chair to the side of him, and Aramis came closer.

“We do not know that, brother!” he replied.

Aramis, shocked by the change in his demeanour, reached for him. But Athos took a step back, his eyes blazing, leaving Aramis’s hand suspended in the air between them.

“Just go! I am a lost cause!” Athos shouted, his face a mask of anger and despair.

Suddenly, Aramis slapped his face.

He hadn’t intended to. It came as a surprise to him; the sharp crack startling him, his eyes widening. But how could he not react when his brother was telling him he was not going to fight?

Athos’s head snapped back briefly. His expression had not changed when he turned his eyes back to Aramis. It was his brother who looked distraught, reaching out to touch the reddened cheek.

“We will fight this together Athos; as brothers – as we always do!” Aramis pleaded.

“Perhaps,” Athos murmured, suddenly spent.

He picked up the bottle of Armagnac brandy he had bought on his way from the Garrison and swallowed the last of it, feeling its warmth glide down his throat once more; the only life he felt at that moment.

The gulf between them was widening by the minute. Aramis fought to find some common ground.

“You must find something to fight for Athos! There must be things you want to do!”

The anger drained completely from him then. Of course he wanted to live for his brothers, but what else? He turned sad eyes to Aramis, his arms hanging limply at his sides now, the empty bottle in his hand. Levelling his gaze at his friend he sighed,

“What do you want me to say, Aramis? ...”

“That I have much to do?”

He waved the empty bottle around, and then, looking at it he shook his head,

“That I would like to drink the finest wines?

That I would like to see The Americas?”

His voice was almost inaudible now;

“That I would like to feel the touch of a woman ... before I die?”

A look of utter sadness passed between them then.

“Because I would like _all_ those things,” he said, his voice cracking now, the facade broken beyond repair.

His words hung in the air between them. Aramis found he could not breathe properly. He felt utterly helpless to comfort his friend.

Then his hand opened and the empty bottle fell and shattered across the floor.

**Later:**

“I cannot sleep Aramis.”

“Do you want me to prepare something for you, brother?”

“No, I mean I dare not.”

Aramis realised then, that time was precious to Athos and he could not contemplate wasting time sleeping.

**oOo**

**ATHOS:**

_They watch me._

_I feel their eyes on me._

_They wonder if I will stop breathing whilst they watch... they are fearful, I know._

_As am I._

_Once, it did not matter to me. Death would have been a fine bedfellow._

_But now, I do not wish to walk under its dark shadow._

_How do I come to this? Does it take my imminent demise to show me that my life means something to me?_

_But I know it is not such things that now make my life precious._

_It is the friendship of these three men that fill my soul._

_My brothers._

_Aramis wants me to fight._

_They all do._

_I watch them._

_They feel my eyes on them._

_I will fight, then._

**oOo**

Meanwhile, Dr Lemay had sent word to a colleague and former University friend, who had experience of plant based poisons and the man had duly made his way to Paris.

Fully aware that Aramis had said that this was different; this was alchemy; Lemay felt it was the best option they had, and that he and his friend would work together, as they had many times before.

Michel Baptiste had trained with Lemay at the Sorbonne. His primary interest was botany as a science, and he had spent much of his studies in the vast library, second only to the Papal library in Rome, where there were many books on the classification of plants. When they graduated with their doctorates, they both had a healthy respect for the progress of holistic medicine, and for experimentation and discovery.

**oOo**

Lemay had returned to the Garrison once more and had sought Athos out.

He had told him that after discussing the matter with his colleague, Dr Baptiste, they both concurred that they believed that when the poison began to take hold, Athos would have perhaps three to five days before he was incapacitated. He assured him that if the formula could be located, he and his colleague would work night and day to develop an antidote.

However, he said, this was only speculation, and it would all depend on the amount that had been absorbed. He apologised that he could give him no further information.

After, Athos had sat in stunned silence gathering his thoughts, realising the final reality of his situation.

Although he was grateful for the clinical manner in which this news had been imparted, he dearly wished his brothers had been with him. Even so, he dreaded their return as he would have to tell them that he was on borrowed time.

Still veering between anger and denial, Athos found himself heading toward the stable, to spend some time with the horses. He picked up his stallion’s brush and slotted it onto his hand. As he did so, he saw that the leather strap fitted perfectly with the raw red mark across his knuckles. Realisation dawned on him. This was how he had absorbed the poison. He was stunned. At that moment, his body chose to betray him. His legs gave way and he collapsed into the straw.

**oOo**

He opened his eyes once more to the crack in the ceiling. It was still impressive.

“Here again,” he sighed.

Turning his head, he saw Porthos sitting next to him.

“You must be tired of hauling me around,” he said.

“Nah, s’all right,” Porthos smiled,

“You can buy me a drink when you’re better.”

Athos held his gaze for a little too long.

“Gladly,” he replied, quietly.

**oOo**

As soon as they realised the poison was transmitted by the horse brush, they went quickly to the stables. But the brush was gone, evidence in itself.

“That’s it then, Athos was right,” said Porthos.

“More to the point, whoever put the poison on the strap knew what they were doing, and how to avoid harm to themselves,” Aramis added.

“And had access to the stables.”

“One of us?!” said d’Artagnan, aghast.

“Perhaps. We should tell the Captain,” Aramis said, turning on his heel and heading off to Treville’s office.

Treville was appalled, but then fell thoughtful.

“Athos told me of a conversation he had last week,” he said moving to the window and looking out toward the stables.

“What ‘appened?” asked Porthos, joining Treville at the window.

“It was in the stables, as it happens. It got quite heated apparently, but Athos was more puzzled by it than annoyed.”

“Who was he talkin’ with?”

“He didn’t say, just that he’d had an interesting debate about the concept of honour, and wasn’t sure if he had been insulted or not!”

“I asked him who he was talking to but he was evasive. You know Athos, I suppose he was still working it out.”

“In the meantime, Gentlemen, I have applied for a warrant to search Urbain Barre’s room. If there is a poison, there is a formula, according to Dr Baptiste. And as you said, Barre does seem to keep copious records.”

“Finding that formula may be the only chance Athos has.”

**oOo**

“It would be ... ironic,” said Athos later, as he sat quietly with Aramis.

“What would, brother?”

“If I were to be killed by a priest.”

Aramis gasped.

“Why do you say that?”

Athos raised his head and looked at him,

“...because I am asking if you and your God will assist me out of this world ... should it come to that,” he finished.

Aramis could not speak at first, but then he put his hand on the back of Athos’s neck.

“I promise.”

**oOo**

As a mercenary, Gerard LeSavage had encountered the Musketeers before on the borders with Spain, when he fought against a French noble fallen foul of the Spanish King. He was both intrigued and disgusted with them, this elite band serving their King, for honour alone.

It had not been an easy task but he had forged references to fool Treville. He had taken up the blue cloak, but the same time, kept his mercenary brothers close. They were with him, in the shadows, when he had taken their Lieutenant Athos off the streets, six months prior.

Part of him had regretted his deception, as Treville had taken him on trust, which would have meant something to him once. But then, this was the man who had set up this regiment of hypocrites. 

Now, his final plan was underway. He had tested the poison on rats, but they were too small, and he needed to get the dosage just right. He needed a prolonged suffering. Finally, the vagrant he chose had taken several days to die. He had followed him during that time, watching its progress, before disposing of his body in a swollen river, weighted down for good measure; though no-one would have missed him, or identified him. He kept the formula close to him. He would need more. Much more. The Priest would be willing, he had need of the money.

He knew by then he had become a savage, true to his name. But he no longer had the ability to care.

To be continued ...


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Athos devises his own way of counting his allotted time, and the countdown begins. Aramis has a moment; Porthos gets a prediction, and the hunt is on for the formula, but things don't go quite according to plan.

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

Later, they all gathered in Athos's room in the Garrison. His demeanour had changed somewhat, he seemed pragmatic. He had placed four large candles side by side on the table. His brothers sat at the table and watched him, both intrigued and curious.

“What are these for?” d’Artagnan finally asked.

Turning to them Athos leaned against the table.

“Each one will burn for a day, maybe a little more,” he said.

“Doctors Lemay and Baptiste believe I have three to five days; I am therefore erring on the site of caution.” He sighed, “Not entirely pessimistic, but neither wholly optimistic in his prognosis. I therefore have evened the odds by using four,” he said calmly, as only he could.

“Each time one burns down, I will light another.”

He took one candle then and, standing it on end on a metal plate, he lit it.

“Do you ‘ave to do that?” Porthos said, shifting his position, feeling uncomfortable.

“It focuses my mind,” he said simply.

“And when the last one’s burned down?” asked Porthos, not wanting the answer.

Athos was looking down, but he raised his eyes and looked at them all then.

"I must hope that does not happen," he said softly.

**oOo**

_The First Candle._

That night, they sat down to eat together in the Garrison mess. Serge had outdone himself, preparing a meal that they hoped they could eat, given the current circumstances. Although they often ate together, they were all aware that this was different. There was so much to take in. The red welt on Athos’s hand served as a reminder.

They were aware there was a candle burning in his room. 

But, as sometimes can happen in emotionally charged circumstances, their humour was never far away. It felt good to laugh, and chide each other. Porthos’s laugh was always heart-warming and infectious. As the night wore on though, they caught themselves looking at each other, and looking away quickly.

They began to choose their words carefully and reality finally settled upon them like the touch of a black carrion wing when Athos reached for his glass, but missed it. d’Artagnan took Athos’s hand and placed it on the glass. Athos raised it to his lips, but still, he was calm.

As one, they stretched out their arms and took each other’s hand, circling the table, and falling silent.

**oOo**

The following day:

Athos had taken one of Aramis’s pain relief mixtures, and was feeling lightheaded, but comfortable. He sat at the table, quietly watching the comings and goings in the Garrison yard. Aramis stood on the balcony outside Treville’s office, watching him. It was difficult not to, after the previous evening, but he was trying not to make it obvious. It was a beautiful warm day, and he turned his face up to the sun and willed himself to relax, and focus his thoughts;

**ARAMIS:**

_Brother._

_You have my heart._

_I watch you move around, softly diminishing before my eyes._

_Please, fight._

_I am not whole._

_I am not whole without you._

**oOo**

Porthos came over and sat down heavily next to Athos, tired after throwing one of the new recruits around, though he took no enjoyment in it, his mind on other things. They shared a cup of wine together, and then Athos raised his head to look at Porthos,

“Tell me about your future,” he said suddenly.

Porthos frowned at the request, but then realised that Athos needed to look forward, if not for himself, then for his friends.

His heart was heavy as he sought a suitable reply.

“How can I know?” he finally said, quietly.

“You can plan, my friend; you can make it happen,” Athos replied.

“I like bein’ a soldier, you know that Athos,” he chuckled.

“You will be a General one day, my friend,” Athos said, favouring him with one of his rare smiles.

**oOo**

Suddenly, reprieve from the permeating heavy atmosphere came when Treville appeared on his balcony, having taken receipt of the morning’s messages, which delivered the warrant to search Barre’s room. Relieved to on their way, they made ready to leave.

Aramis turned to Athos and lay a hand on his chest.

“Stay, Brother,” said Aramis gently.

Athos looked down at the hand gently restraining him.

“The stairs will be too much,” Aramis said, moving his hand to squeeze his shoulder. He had expected an argument, and was surprised when Athos sat back down.

And so, d’Artagnan, Porthos and Aramis headed back to the Priest's domain without him.

Shortly, they approached the tower, aware that this was possibly one of their most important missions. They sought the formula but did not know what they were looking for.

Quietly climbing the stairs, they quickly reached the landing, Aramis and d’Artagnan took their place on either side of the door and Porthos stayed back. He looked at each of them in turn and then Porthos rapped on the door. Eventually, the locks turned, and when he heard the bolt sliding back, he kicked the door. It gave easily under his force and they moved across the threshold quickly, entering the room. 

Barre was taken completely by surprise and staggered back against the table. Lined up in front of him, he was helpless against the three determined Musketeers.

Barre could only glare as Porthos took the warrant from his belt.

d’Artagnan had already started moving around the table, his eyes flickering over the papers that lay around the room. Neatness was not one of Barre’s qualities, if he had any, he thought.

“Our brother is poisoned, by your hand,” Porthos growled at the man.

“Not by my hand” Barre said, straightening, cautious but defiant.

Aramis knew that this man had once followed a religious path but d’Artagnan was right, he saw, looking at the man’s once badly broken nose and ruined hand, he had been tortured. Whatever he had endured had damaged him beyond his love of France; turning him on a path of destruction. Whoever his intended victims were, the use of any future weapons he developed would be indiscriminate.

“M. Barre,” Aramis said, “Please by the love of the God you once cherished tell us what poison you used!”

“I have used none; I do not know what you are talking about.”

“It could only have come from you!” Aramis said exasperated.

Porthos reached out then and picked up a gold coin from the table in front of him.

"Spanish," he hissed. “Wait, did you sell it to someone?”

Barre said nothing.

“Where is the formula?” said Porthos, at his most menacing.

Barre’s eyes flickered across his table but still he said nothing.

Aramis knew this was a man who was fanatically proud of his accomplishments. He had given them a demonstration of the vapour he had developed. So he tried appealing to the man’s vanity.

“Tell us of your invention,” he said.

Barre smiled then, but it was a cold smile. This man was full of hatred and was not to be cajoled easily.

“I have not _invented_ a poison,” he snarled.

This was not what they wanted to hear. They wanted a quick end to this interview.

But Barre was not finished.

“I fell upon it by chance. It is a by-product,” he continued, warming to his subject. “It was not my primary goal, but it is one with tremendous potential,” he said proudly.

Barely keeping up with the man, Porthos was losing patience. He again waved the warrant he held in his fist at Barre.

“Where’s the formula,” he growled, pointing his pistol at the man in front of him, who he now wanted to tear limb from limb.

“It won’t be any use to you,” Barre replied, casually turning away,

“I am the only one who understands the process.”

d’Artagnan suddenly snapped and drew his dagger from his belt.

“Now!” he shouted, “or you will beg to die!”

Barre sneered. Holding up his left hand and displaying his fingers devoid of nails, he said,

“Better men than you have tried that, Musketeer.”

Barre suddenly reached forward and flung a bowl of white powder across the table at d’Artagnan, whilst grabbing the large book from the table in front of him and holding it protectively against his chest.

Caught off guard, the powder in his face, d’Artagnan fired his pistol. Barre dropped the book and fell backward against the shelves, which crashed down under his weight sending books, papers and bottles onto the floor. He slid down and fell, dead, sprawling across the debris, blood beginning to seep over the destruction beneath him.

Porthos reached down and pressed fingers against the man's throat.

“The formula!” shouted Aramis, ignoring Barre, and madly grabbing at the papers before they could be destroyed by the ever increasing seeping pool of blood.

They all scrambled then, frantically gathering up all the documents off the floor. None of them made sense; there were dozens of papers, covered in all sorts of diagrams and symbols. Aware that time was ticking by, their search became more frantic. Aramis checked that Barre was indeed dead, and could not be roused to help in their search.

d’Artagnan was mad with grief that he had killed the only person who held the key to their brother’s torment. 

“We’re not going to find it!” he cried, picking up the large book off the table and slamming it down.

Against all the odds, he saw a parchment jolted up from between the pages of the book, its top edge protruding. He reached forward to pull it out."

"Wait!" Aramis cried, stopping him. 

Reaching across d'Artagnan, he opened the book at the pages that held the parchment. 

They did not know what they were looking at, but the open book held Barre’s hand drawn diagram of his precious gas bombs; the formula of which was written on the actual pages of the book. And there, between the pages were not one, but two folded parchments.

Unfolding them carefully, they saw that each one had a list of words and numbers under the heading, “By-Product.”

They look at each other, and laughed.

To be continued ...


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER NINE**

As the hours wore on, Athos was feeling progressively worse. The dull headache that had accompanied him throughout this ordeal was steadily getting stronger, leaving him feeling weak and nauseous.

His hands were beginning to grow numb, and the skin on his arms was itching. He wanted desperately to sleep but would not allow himself to; every minute was becoming precious to him. Throughout this, he tried to keep his symptoms away from his brothers, but he ached to share them.

Of course, they knew, he realised.

They watched him.

When they came back and told him Barre was dead, he saw how shocked they were, and so he did not react. But a small piece of hope left him then. He was beginning to accept that this may not work out as they all hoped.

But they produced two formulae, and hope returned.

**oOo**

Treville had given his office over to the two physicians for their investigations. They had quickly filled the room with their paraphernalia, the room soon looking more like a laboratory than a command post.

Michel Baptiste was a man of around forty five years, slightly older than his colleague, Lemay. His pale complexion no doubt resulted from his years spent in academic study. He had piercing blue eyes beneath heavy brows, which may have given him a stern expression, if not for the soft timbre of his voice. His hair looked like it was often neglected. Treville thought he was a man who, once engrossed in something, did not relent until he was satisfied; often to the detriment of himself, no doubt, as he had not seen the man take any food or drink since he had arrived at the Garrison. He was impressed with the man’s calm demeanour. 

Baptiste was delighted when he was offered Treville’s office to set up his equipment, and looked around the large room with eager anticipation. The moment he was introduced to him, Treville relaxed, confident and grateful that Lemay had called upon his services, and that Baptiste had answered that call. Under any other circumstances, Treville thought that Athos may actually like this man.

Now, Treville watched quietly as both physicians poured over the two formulae retrieved from Barre, aware that they did not have the luxury of time on their side.

Baptiste was soon able to give Treville his considered opinion of what they had, so far;

“As we know,” Baptiste said, in his soft timbre, “Barre has been trying to make bombs that emit poisonous vapour. What he was left with is this “by-product”; a reduced form true, but still deadly if used in enough quantity. The metal symbol “Sb” is antimony, here in his diagram of the bombs, but it does not appear in the lists of the by-product. So the poison must be plant based; and I believe it to be a derivative of antimony. Any antidote should be plant based to counter it. Barre had fallen upon the substance by chance, it is not as rigorously stable as he may have liked. And, as there are two formulae, we must make an antidote for each, as we do not know which is the definitive one.

The saving grace is that this madman is not alive to perfect it.”

Porthos’s head was aching, as he reached up to massage his temples.

“Can you make such an antidote?” Treville asked, hopefully.

“Botany science is my speciality Captain Treville, but we have two formulae here, so it is a question of comparing the two and a process of elimination.”

“But, there is a problem, Captain,” Baptiste threw a glance his way,

“I am not inclined to test any experimental antidotes on your Lieutenant until I can be certain it is not lethal. He is too weak.”

“You mean even an antidote can kill?” Treville gasped.

“Of course it can, Captain. It is a question of content and quantity.”

The room fell silent then, optimism hopelessly fading.

“What are we to do”? asked Aramis, throwing up his arms in exasperation.

The room fell silent, the atmosphere heavy.

“What if you were to test your antidotes on someone else?” d’Artagnan ventured, looking earnestly at Baptiste. “Someone healthy.”

Baptiste was thoughtful.

“That may well be a good idea, young man,” he said. “We could then observe any potential side effects that our antidotes may produce. At least, we will be able to lessen any side effects, which can only be beneficial to the patient.”

“Athos,” said Treville, firmly.

“Quite,” replied Baptiste, with a tilt of his head to Treville.

“But, where would we find a person who would be willing to offer themselves to such experimentation”? Lemay said.

“That would be me,” said d’Artagnan softly.

**oOo**

_The Second Candle_

Aramis and Porthos had pulled d’Artagnan from the room and they stood on the balcony. Aramis was trying to talk him out of it, but d’Artagnan was adamant.

“This is something I have to do for Athos,” he said, tensing, acutely aware that it was he who had killed the Priest.

“But you could die!” cried Aramis, taking hold of his shoulders.

“We could lose you both,” Porthos growled.

“And he may die if they don’t find an antidote,” d’Artagnan argued.

“But you could be trading your life for his!” Aramis tried again, “He would not want that!”

“Don’t tell him. Promise me, both of you,” d’Artagnan replied firmly.

Seeing he could not be swayed, they both reluctantly agreed.

“We won’t tell Athos, but we will stay with you,” Aramis said, pulling him in for a firm embrace. The physicians were informed, and all that remained was to wait until they were ready to call them back into Treville’s office/laboratory. 

They knew both doctors were working feverishly, but they were aware of the time, and that a candle was burning in his room in the Garrison.

Porthos paced. 

Eventually, d’Artagnan was called in.

They all looked at each other, and then as one, headed through the door. For all the ground compounds and powders on the table, the physicians had filled a vial with a very small amount of liquid, which Baptiste now held up to the light, and gently shook.

“I would estimate that if this is going to work, it will work very quickly,” Baptiste said.

“What we need to determine, are the side effects, and that is where you come in,” Lemay added, directing d’Artagnan to a chair, which, being him, he crashed down onto. He was eager to help.

“If you are ready d’Artagnan, please swallow this.”

To be continued ...


	10. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER TEN**

Treville stood by the door, a quiet observer, flanked by Porthos and Aramis, all wanting to add their support, but not wanting to get in the way. The two physicians were in command now, their role welcomed, as the others were now way out of their depth.

Under such scrutiny, d’Artagnan was nervous, but he did not hesitate, utterly convinced he was going to see this through.

He promptly swallowed the liquid. There was no turning back now.

In the stillness that followed, nobody appeared to breathe.

The reaction was sudden, as anticipated, but severe.

Sitting in the chair, he first began to feel warm, the heat starting in his chest. He leant forward to counteract the pressure that was making breathing hard. Then, the room started to spin, so he straightened, reaching up to hold his head between his hands. At that, the doctors both stopped watching and came forward, Lemay with his hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder and Baptiste holding his wrist to check his pulse.

Aramis was alarmed,

“d’Artagnan ...?”

He never finished, as d’Artagnan’s eyes rolled back in his head and his limbs began a slow rhythmic thrash, which continued repetitively for what seemed a long time. Porthos moved to go to his side, but Lemay held up his hand.

“Please, we must wait.”

Lemay held d’Artagnan’s arm so he would not slip off the chair, but the steady jerking continued for several more minutes.

Porthos balled his fists against his side but held his ground.

Gradually, the movements slowly began to lessen and just as d’Artagnan was released from their grip, Porthos threw himself forward and caught him before his slid off the chair. Picking his limp brother up, he carried him over to Treville’s bed behind the screen and laid him gently down, where he remained quite still.

Baptiste moved to the desk, wrote something down and then joined Lemay at d’Artagnan’s side. The whole process had only taken a short while, but to Aramis and Porthos it seemed a _very_ long time.

“Not unexpected,” was all Baptiste said.

“What?!” said Porthos, his hand on an unresponsive d’Artagnan’s chest.

“My apologies,” Baptiste said to Porthos, “I know my responses are clinical, but we are trying to save a life,” he said, not unkindly.

Aramis took hold of Porthos’s arm and together with Treville, they left the room to get some fresh air. Once outside on the balcony, he paced up and down before turning quickly to look at Porthos and his Captain.

“I am worried for d’Artagnan, but that would kill Athos,” he hissed.

“There is still the next antidote to try,” said Treville grimly, “I really don’t know if we are doing the right thing.”

“It seems to me, we ‘aven’t got a choice. And you saw d’Artagnan, he wouldn’t thank us if we stopped him now,” Porthos said.

“I doubt we could,” Aramis whispered.

Just then, Lemay opened the door and quietly called them back into the room.

d’Artagnan was awake.

Confused, he was attempting to sit up.

“Rest,” said Aramis, moving quickly across and gently pushing him down.

“What happened?” d’Artagnan asked, “were the side effects bad?”

“How do you feel,” Treville asked him, ignoring his question.

“Fine, I’m fine!” he replied, eager to proceed to the next trial, though his eyes were glassy and his movements sluggish.

“Is the next antidote ready?!” he cried, looking past Treville at Baptise.

“Not yet,” replied Baptiste. “We have to look at the results of this experiment first.”

“How quickly?” asked Aramis then, anxious himself now.

“As soon as we can, I cannot give you an exact time, there is much to do,” Baptiste replied.

However, seeing their dejected looks, he relented.

“Although I believe we have all we need to proceed, Gentlemen,” he added, aware that they were extremely tense and eager to proceed.

“It is just a matter of quantity,” he finished, turning away from them, discussion over.

Treville took charge,

“You,” he said to d’Artagnan, “Are a brave young man, but you need to rest there before the next trial.”

“You,” he said to Porthos and Aramis, “with me,” and he led them out to the Garrison mess, where Serge brought them brandy.

“How is Athos?” Treville asked Serge, who had just left his side in the Infirmary.

“Told me to get the ceiling fixed,” he muttered. “But I bored him asleep with my army tales, as per your orders,” he said to Treville, winking as he wiped the table, before shuffling off.

“Good man,” Treville smiled, pleased that Athos would not discover what they were doing. He could well imagine the man’s reaction.

They were able then to take a little time to gather their thoughts before the next ordeal.

**oOo**

An hour later, when they filed back into the room, d’Artagnan was still laid on the bed, but now had a damp cloth across his forehead, whilst Lemay and Baptiste were pouring over the second formula and preparing the next mixture.

“Is it safe to carry on with the next antidote so soon?” Aramis asked.

“We cannot wait,” said d’Artagnan, from across the room. Startled, Aramis turned to see him sitting up now, the cloth in his hand.

“We cannot wait,” he repeated.

He swung his legs off the bed and rose, a little unsteadily, and went across to sit in the chair again.

“Let me do it, Baptiste,” said Aramis suddenly, standing in front of d’Artagnan.

“No!” cried d’Artagnan, holding onto the back of the chair.

“Not possible, I am afraid,” Baptiste replied,

“I applaud your sentiments, but we have to be consistent. It must be d’Artagnan again.”

Aramis relented, and turned to give d’Artagnan a squeeze on his shoulder.

d’Artaganan reached up and patted his hand, smiling wanly. Aramis crossed the room to stand again with Porthos and his Captain, feeling helpless.

After a few moments, Baptiste handed d’Artagnan a second vial, which he swallowed immediately.

Everyone held their breath. Treville turned and looked out of the window, unable to watch; his heart beating hard against his ribs.

To be continued ...


	11. Chapter 11

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

_Everyone held their breath. Treville turned and looked out of the window, unable to watch, his heart beating hard against his ribs ..._

Soon, d’Artagnan started to sway slightly, and he screwed up his face.

“Feel sick ...” he murmured, doubling over. Before they could react though, the feeling seemed to pass, and he straightened, although it left his face wet with perspiration.

His hand started to spasm, but there was no repeat of the earlier seizure, and they all started to relax. 

Nothing seemed to happen for several minutes.

Then they saw that he was staring. He was sitting quite still now, but staring past them at the wall. Baptiste leant forward and waved his hand in front of d’Artagnan’s face, but the young man’s gaze was unflinching.

It was very quiet then, and watching the doctors, Aramis could not read their faces.

The silence was becoming uncomfortable as they watched their young brother staring.

Suddenly, d’Artagnan appeared to shudder slightly and then his eyes cleared and he looked around.

He smiled.

The atmosphere in the room changed instantly and everyone seemed to relax, including the doctors.

Aramis and Porthos pulled d’Artagnan up and led him back to the bed, where he sat on the edge, exhausted but apparently coherent.

“That was better,” said Lemay to Baptiste, both seeming to forget the others in the room.

“I think we should be able to try this antidote on the Lieutenant soon,” they announced, to everyone’s relief.

“Do we ‘ave to tell ‘im?” Porthos said, “Can’t we just tell ‘im it’s a pain relief?”

He was worried how Athos would cope if it did not work, but they agreed that Athos knew they had brought two formulae back from Barre’s room, and it was wrong to try and deceive him.

**oOo**

Sometime later, based on the reactions to the two trial antidotes, they produced what they hoped was a definitive antidote.

Athos was now propped up on the bed with pillows supporting him. Covered in a light sheen of perspiration, he was reluctant to take it. But he had made a silent pact with himself that he would fight, for them. And he respected what the two physicians were trying to do. So he decided to quell his natural pessimism and he submitted to it. 

It left him retching into a bucket for longer than he cared to know. The light was suddenly too bright and he felt as if his whole body was on fire. No-one dared touch him, as it caused him pain. All they could do was sit close while he lay with a cloth over his eyes, and wished whatever was waiting for him would take him quickly. Later, he opened his eyes to find nothing had changed, he was still slowly being poisoned.

“Let me be now,” he whispered.

**oOo**

d’Artagnan was desolate as they sat outside at the table once more.

“Don’t despair, brother,” said Porthos, “they’re workin’ on it. Without you, they wouldn’t have dared try it on Athos. You ‘eard Baptiste, he didn’t want to test them on ‘im.”

The Garrison was still functioning, although the atmosphere was sombre.

d’Artagnan watched two recruits sparring near the Archway.

“It’s his stance,” says d’Artagnan quietly, nodding towards one of them.

“Athos would be correcting his stance.”

d’Artagnan stood slowly, and headed to the stables.

“Athos asked me to look after d’Artagnan,” Aramis said, watching his back as he disappeared through the stable door.

“Me too,” Porthos replied.

**oOo**

_The Third Candle:_

The black stallion meant a lot to Athos. Their bond was strong. He had owned many horses in his time, but Roger had a special place in his heart, and their spirits were well suited. Some would say they could both be moody and mean spirited and both had a defiant streak. Also, that both were proud and highly intelligent. But none would doubt the loyalty in either.

Now, Athos stood in the stable with Jacques, stroking the stallion’s nose.

“This horse,” said Athos quietly, “has wits. He has saved my life many times, in his way. He is more than I ever hoped,” he touched his forehead to the horse’s muzzle and received and snort and a flick of his head, which made Athos step back.

“And he has his own mind,” he said proudly, having just avoided a collision of faces.

He turned to Jacques then.

“But he needs to use his brain, Jacques,” he said meeting the boy’s gaze.

“His wits need to be sharpened regularly, and I would take it as a great favour if I could look to you to do that for me, if you will,” he said, turning back to the horse, who was now more inclined to be gentle with his master.

“Gladly, sir,” said the boy, rather in awe of the Lieutenant, and feeling a little awkward to be solely in his presence.

“He is a wonderful horse,” said the boy, reaching out and touching Roger’s bridle.

“Indeed, he is,” replied Athos.

Athos felt the horse’s eyes on him then and he raised his head to meet those liquid brown depths.

_This horse can see into my very soul._

“You know all his tricks, Jacques,” Athos continued, moving to sit on a nearby hay bale.

“I have one more to show you,” he said, producing a rosy red apple from his jacket pocket.

**oOo**

“What is he doin?” asked Porthos,

He had been watching Athos slowly move around the Garrison yard, speaking to Serge, then spending an hour with Treville in his office before going into the stables. He was currently sitting on a straw bale showing Jacques the latest trick he had taught Roger; the stallion could now toss an apple into the air and then catch it, before eating it; Athos watched while the boy mastered it.

“He’s making his peace, my friend,” said Aramis, looking at his hands.

“He seems resigned,” said d’Artagnan, his eyes shining with unshed tears.

“No, my friend,” Aramis replied.

“It is acceptance.”

To be continued ...


	12. Chapter 12

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

Although Michel Baptiste was a scientific man, that did not mean he did not have a softly beating heart, which could be persuaded to occasionally sit uncomfortably in his throat or threaten to burst through his chest if situations allowed. Mostly, he was not exposed to such situations, although he suspected that he chose to protect himself now, since the death of his dear wife Madeleine, three years since.

He had briefly visited Athos, but left the monitoring of his health to Lemay and those who cared for him. He did not wish to be distracted by something he had no control over. The poison’s progression would continue with or without any discussions he had with the man.

Treville’s assumption that he did not take time out to care for himself was not quite right, as he had allowed himself the odd ten minutes to sit at the small table on the balcony outside the Captain’s office to eat a simple meal. This is where he had surreptitiously watched Athos when he was in the yard.

On this particular break he too had watched Athos in the stable with the boy and waited until he had returned to the table in the yard. He then chose to walk down the steps and sit himself down next to Athos, the others making themselves scarce when he approached. The two of them spent a quiet time, heads bent, in discussion. 

Treville was right, Athos did like this no-nonsense man, who offered him nothing but his unwavering dedication to producing an antidote. When they parted, both had a healthy respect for the other; Athos a renewed confidence that all that could be done was being done, and Baptiste a renewed determination that he would help this brave man, who, he suspected was functioning now by sheer iron will alone.

**oOo**

Later:

Despite their earlier huge disappointment, no-one was going to give up, and they all now gathered in Treville’s office.

“Whoever did this must have the final formula!” Aramis said later, looking at the two physicians.

“It seems like it,” said Baptiste. “Barre must have written those two down before he ‘perfected’ the poison. They are incomplete, obviously. Instead of destroying them, he left them in his book.”

“He would never have parted with the final formula willingly, so whoever bought the poison, must have taken the formula,” d’Artagnan said.

This was getting more complicated by the second, thought Porthos, struggling to keep up.

“But we know that Barre was in league with the Spanish, whoever has the formula could be well over the border by now,” Aramis countered.

“So what are we missin’?” said Porthos, his usual response to these sorts of mysteries, but it served to concentrate minds.

“Someone went into our stables and smeared poison on Athos’s horse brush. But who would know he kept that brush to himself?” d’Artagnan replied.

“It could ‘ave been anyone who had seen him usin’ it. It wasn’t exactly a secret.”

“We need to talk to Athos,” said Treville.

Athos was resting in his room. They gently shook him awake. He opened his eyes to four people looking at him. He had deteriorated in the short time they had left him, and was now very weak, and the light hurt his eyes, but he drew himself up on his pillows and waited.

“Athos,” said Treville gently.

“Do you remember telling me about the Musketeer who you thought had insulted you a few weeks ago?”

Athos looked confused.

“You said he challenged our notion of honour?”

Treville leant forward and gently stroked Athos’s cheek with his palm.

“Come, Athos, think!” he said gently.

But Athos only frowned.

“Athos! Tell me! That’s an order!” Treville barked.

“Captn’ ....” Porthos said, visibly shaken by Treville’s tone.

And then Athos rallied.

“LeSavage ... the mercenary, Gerard LeSavage,” Athos said, his voice hoarse. 

After a moments silence, Treville slapped this hand on his knee.

“Of course!” he cried, as it slotted into place.

“There is only one thing ... LeSavage resigned his commission two days ago.”

“Where is he?” said Porthos.

“He rode out. I don’t know where.”

**oOo**

Back in his “office” Treville, frantically searched his records for information on LeSavage, working around Lemay and Baptise.

“The Spanish agents Barre sought out were mercenaries. They needed him. Those bombs used on a battlefield would be a prize indeed, but the poison by-product would be an even easier way of destroying French armies. Its application to any number of the enemy’s possessions - can you imagine the destruction?”

“But it’s insane! The deaths would be indiscriminate, even killing their own!” said Aramis.

“Madness is not a logical process,” Treville muttered, finally finding what he wanted.

“But what is it that LeSavage wants?” mused Aramis.

“I don’t know. LeSavage comes looking for bombs and discovers Barre’s by-product and buys that.”

“So how did he get the formula?”

“Probably stole it while Barre was giving him a demonstration,” D’Artagnan said sarcastically, little realising that was the reality.

“Here it is, he lived in Picardy,” Treville cried, holding up the document.

“Well, he can’t go to Spain, he’s ruined their plans; Barre is dead, his inventions die with him,” Aramis said.

“So our only ‘ope is that he’s gone back to his old home?”

“Why would he do that?” d’Artagnan looked at Treville.

“Because his wife and daughter are buried there,” said Treville, still reading his records.

“How do you know?”

“Because his first payment as a Musketeer went for upkeep of their graves.”

“Here is the address,” he said, handing them a slip of paper,

“Go! Find that formula, Gentlemen.”

To be continued ...


	13. Chapter 13

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

Athos insisted on going with them.

Aramis was aghast.

“You cannot!”

“I am going Aramis, with or without you,” he said quietly.

“But you are too weak, mon cher,” Aramis tried again.

“Then give me something to keep me awake, dammit!” came the angry reply.

“I cannot!” Aramis said, “You must keep your system calm. If I give you a stimulant, the poison may work faster!”

“I’m going,” said his stubborn brother, giving Aramis the most intense stare he could muster.

“But you may lose the only chance you have,” Aramis said weakly, knowing he was fighting a losing battle.

“Your eyes, brother,” he said finally.

“I know your eyes are dim.”

“I will ride with Porthos,” Athos said in response, already on his feet.

Leaving Aramis no choice, he made up a stimulant and reluctantly handed it over to Athos, who swallowed it in one go, and strode past him to the door. Porthos fell in behind him, ready to steer him if need be.

“We must ride hard, brother,” Porthos said, warily.

“So be it,” said Athos.

Porthos helped him into the saddle, and then climbed up behind him.

“Thank you, Porthos,” Athos whispered.

Porthos put an arm around him then, feeling his brother’s heart now pounding in his chest.

“That’s two drinks you owe me,” Porthos rumbled, and Athos patted his arm, before firming his grip.

Porthos took up the reins, and together with d’Artagnan and Aramis, they rode together out of the Garrison.

**oOo**

The ride was short , but true to his word, Porthos rode hard. Aramis had concerns for Athos, although the man himself gave no outward sign of discomfort on the journey, fuelled by the herbal potion Aramis had reluctantly given him.

The house in Picardy, one hour from Paris, was in a small hamlet of around six houses. The house no longer belonged to LeSavage, but the new owners had apparently respected the small cemetery in the attached woodland, where his wife and daughter lay, and accepted the payments he had sent for its upkeep.

LeSavage was moving on. If he had any sense he would be far away, but they hoped he would pay one last visit to his lost family.

They approached cautiously, and dismounted. The house was small but neat, of a red brick design. They could see no life, no smoke from the chimney, and the shutters were firmly closed across the windows. They could, however, see some small movement to the side of the house in a sparse copse of trees. A small campsite had been set up. Someone had spent the night.

Moving softly forward, they saw it was their man.

If he heard them, he gave no sign.

They moved closer.

He looked up then.

They were shocked by his haggard appearance.

“You know why we have come,” Athos said, hoping his voice sounded stronger than he felt.

“Do you have the formula?” Aramis said.

LeSavage looked at Athos. If there was any morsel of conscience left in him, it was not evident.

“What’s it worth to you?” LeSavage sneered, nodding towards Athos.

“Says the mercenary,” growled Porthos.

LeSavage bristled,

“He’s dead already!” he yelled.

Aramis looked across at Athos. He could see now that the effect of the stimulant he had given him was beginning to wear off. Athos was visibly weakening. He kept shaking his head and passing his hand across his eyes, his blurred vision obviously returning. Porthos stood beside him, but was aware that any help he offered would be rebuffed. Athos was angry.

“Why kill Athos? What has he done to you?” Porthos asked LeSavage.

“Nothing,” said LeSavage calmly. 

“He is a Musketeer, and it is what you stand for that I despise. I doubt I would have stopped until you were all dead, and your so-called honour with you.

He laughed, a terrible sound, and then;

“You talk of honour but let women sneak around in the night, fighting your battles, he growled.

They were unsure of what he was talking about, until Aramis suddenly said, incredulously,

“You are talking about Milady, in the Forest of Compiegne?” remembering their terrible battle to free Athos, six months prior.

“You?!” said d’Artagnan.

“My game, yes; I have _friends_ from my days as a soldier of fortune. She killed three of them in that forest. And then she killed the three who escaped, but not before they told me it was a woman; seems she had no problem looking them in the eye as she sent them to Hell,” he said, spitting on the ground in disgust.

“Did you think the severed arm was a nice touch?” he continued, looking directly at Aramis;

“Not killed by my hand, but an acquired cadaver.”

“My God,” Aramis said. “We nearly had you!”

“This is cruel and sadistic,” d’Artagnan cried, clenching his hands, stepping closer to the man he hated with all his heavy heart.

LeSavage looked down at the two graves at his feet.

“What do you know of cruelty!?” he hissed, drifting on brutal memories.

Aramis raised his hands toward LeSavage, and tilted his head to the larger of the two headstones.

“She would not want this,” he whispered.

They had reached an impasse.

Aramis looked at Athos, and ached with desperation.

But Athos stood his ground. He would not plead; although his loyalty to his brothers was unwavering, he would not let them see how despairing he was for them.

Athos could make out the group of figures now as if they stood in a thick fog. Mere shadows, he tried to focus on their voices so that he could place them.

Aramis was studying LeSavage. The man was sweating, and he seemed to be having trouble seeing.

“My God,” he said finally. “You are poisoned!”

Divine justice he thought dispassionately; but he could muster no sympathy.

LeSavage looked at him, realisation dawning on him. He spat on the ground again as the old anger returned, the sight of his daughter and his wife never far from his tortured mind. 

“Musketeers did not kill them, Gerard,” said Aramis softly. “They were the Cardinal’s men – two were found guilty and hanged. The Musketeers had no remit at that time to evict.”

“But you evict now!” he shouted.

“And for all their _honour,_ they did not come to their rescue! The Musketeers did not save them.” LeSavage spat out his contempt for Treville’s regiment. All rationality now gone.

Aramis tried again,

“She would not want this,” he was pleading now.

LeSavage was adrift now.

Suddenly, he threw his head back, lost in a brutal image, and yelled,

“WHAT DO YOU KNOW?! YOU DID NOT SEE THEM!”

The last vestiges of sanity left him then.

He pulled out his dagger and turned to face d’Artagnan.

In that instant, Athos raised the loaded pistol he had held to his side and, swaying, tried to find his target.

LeSavage stepped closer to d’Artagnan, and Athos moved.

_“d’Artagnan!”_ he yelled.

d’Artagnan turned in the same instant toward Athos and dropped to one knee.

Athos lined up his shot at the vague image of the man now towering over the crouched figure of d’Artagnan, and fired.

LeSavage was thrown backward by the force of the shot and fell beside the grave of his wife, his hand stretched toward the headstone.

Porthos bent and grabbed him by his jacket, but the man merely sneered at him, before his eyes glazed over and he went limp, the life draining quickly from him. Porthos dropped him heavily back on the ground with an angry grunt.

“He was dead already, poisoned too, by his own hand,” whispered Aramis, looking at the man’s haggard appearance.

d’Artagnan stood, in time to see his mentor slowly crumple to his knees. 

He reached him before his head hit the ground.

Suddenly realising what they had done, Porthos desperately started searching LeSavage for the formula.

Growling, he was tearing at the dead man’s clothing. 

Finding nothing.

In desperation, he started pulling off his boots.

He shook the first one, flinging it away in disgust seeing it empty.

Looking wildly at them, he began to tug at the other boot, and shoved his large hand down inside.

And, finally his hand closed on a folded parchment.

_They had it._

To be continued ...


	14. Chapter 14

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

d’Artagnan had leapt into his saddle and ridden ahead to tell Lemay and Baptiste that they had the formula, still safe in Porthos’s care.

Not for the first time, because of LeSavage, Porthos held his brother in his arms in front of him as they rode frantically back to the Garrison.

Lemay and Baptiste would be waiting for them, ready to prepare another antidote, hopefully the one that would finally work.

_The Fourth Candle._

They arrive back at the Garrison, scattering fellow Musketeers as they charge through the Archway They help a grimacing Athos from the horse he shared with Porthos.

“Is it painful, mon ami?” Aramis asks, at his side now.

“Somewhat.”

“In truth?”

“Almost more than I can bear,” he whispers.

Porthos does not relinquish his precious cargo, but hands the formula to d’Artagnan.

Lemay and Baptiste are waiting in Treville’s room. Alerted by the horses, they stand on the balcony, and d’Artagnan hurtles toward them, the formula in his hand. They disappear back into Treville’s room and the door is firmly closed. d’Artagnan turns and heads back to Athos and his brothers, his heart threatening to burst from his chest.

Porthos half carries Athos into his room, as he resists going into the Infirmary.

Aramis prepares pain relief, which Athos swallows gratefully.

“Rest, brother,” Aramis pleads, putting his hand on Athos’s shoulder. Athos tenses and resists, his body pushing against Aramis’s hand.

He stares down at the bed dejectedly.

_If I lie down, I may never get up._

Aramis realises Athos is in the grip of deep emotions and so he steers his friend toward the table in the corner.

They wait for the pain relief to take hold.

They wait for all they have invested in two physicians working feverishly across the yard to come to fruition.

They wait.

Athos lays his head on his arms on the table.

**Later:**

Athos is failing.

When Aramis asks him to rest once more, he does not resist.

They have closed the shutters, and placed candles around the room.

The large candle stands on a table next to the bed, its flame gently flickering.

Time slips by, and the room takes on a soft glow, shadows playing across the ceiling.

Aramis gently climbs on the bed now and lies beside him. He lifts his crucifix and kisses it.

He takes his brother’s hand;

“I am here Athos; my God and I are here, as I promised you,” he whispers.

Athos is struggling to pull in air and Aramis knows he cannot see him clearly, but he is rewarded with a gentle squeeze of his hand. Athos is calm then, and the room is still; mellow almost, in the candlelight.

They are all there.

“Do you think I will see Thomas?” he whispers suddenly, taking Aramis completely by surprise. But Aramis recovers quickly, resting his hand on his friend’s arm, his heart breaking.

“I am sure of it, brother,” Aramis replies, softly.

_Stay._

Silence falls then, only broken by the occasional ragged breath, and the soft murmurs of Aramis.

“The candle is burning low,” d’Artagnan says quietly.

“A burning candle is not an exact science, mon ami,” whispers Aramis, now holding Athos in his arms.

_But the flame is spluttering; the fourth candle almost gutted._

“I made him a promise,” said Aramis, looking up at them,

“And he is giving us his last gift, by showing us dignity and grace,” he says, lowering his head to Athos’s heaving chest.

Athos turns his head and his dim eyes seek the guttering flame of the candle.

As it splutters and dies ...

Athos closes his eyes.

To be continued ...


	15. Chapter 15

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

All was still, save for the murmured prayers of Aramis, bent on fulfilling his promise.

The fourth candle was spent and the shadows had lengthened.

d’Artagnan’s world had suddenly become very small, his hope burned away by a gutted candle.

Suddenly, the quiet was broken by Lemay and his colleague, crashing through the door. They had been working all evening and Lemay held a glass vial very carefully in his hand.

Surveying the quiet scene they stopped, thinking they were too late, but d’Artagnan turned and cried out,

“You have it?!”

“Pray God we do,” said Lemay, moving quickly to the bedside.

Porthos brought a candle over and held it aloft, his hand trembling beyond his control; as were his tears.

Aramis, with renewed hope, gently raised Athos’s head and Lemay put the vial to his lips and poured it quickly down his throat before he could resist.

Minutes went by. They had been here before.

Half an hour.

The silence that permeated the room only broken by the quiet entreaties that Aramis continued to whisper, in quiet conversation with his God.

And then, his hand jerked, 

and he shuddered.

Aramis cried out, sure their brother was gone.

Athos drew in a long breath and his whole body relaxed.

Baptiste leaned forward and put a finger on his neck.

“Is he gone?” whispered d’Artagnan.

“One moment,” said Baptiste.

And then,

“He lives,” Baptiste sighed.

“He lives.”

**oOo**

Shortly, Athos opened his eyes, and Aramis was overcome.

His joy was short lived though, when he passed his hand over his brother’s face, and realised that his friend was still unconscious.

His mind suddenly slammed back to d’Artagnan’s second trial when the young man sat staring into space.

They all realised then, that although he was alive, he was far from well.

This was not over.

Baptiste leant over Athos and raised his eyelids fully and saw that his pupils were enlarged. He then raised his arm, and it stayed hanging in the air after the doctor had let go. His eyes remained open, but unseeing.

Checking his body, he found his hands and feet to be very cold.

_“What have we done?!”_

Aramis pleaded, distraught, pulling Athos closer to his chest.

The physicians passed a look between them.

Lemay took a needle and pushed it into the back of Athos’s hand. Athos jerked his hand away and he whimpered.

Then, a tear appeared at the corner of his eye and tracked slowly down onto the pillow.

“He is distressed! Does he know we are here?” cried d’Artagnan, looking from one doctor to the other.

Baptiste pursed his lips,

“He is in a wakeful unconscious state – I have seen this before, but not in these circumstances, obviously. It usually results from a traumatic injury. Although it can be caused by toxins; his body has been sorely tried.”

“However,” Doctor Lemay interjected, “This could be a stage in his recovery.”

Baptiste nodded.

“True.”

“He has been under a tremendous amount of strain and his system will be very weak. He is lucky to have survived this long.”

“Because of you,” said Treville addressed the physicians from across the room; needing to bring some humanity to these two scientific men. As grateful as he was to them, their fascination in Athos’s symptoms rather than empathy for the man himself was beginning to shred his nerves.

They seemed oblivious though and continued scribbling notes and conferring with each other.

Meanwhile, Aramis saw Athos swallow. He was relieved as this meant they may be able to give him some sustenance. D’Artagnan passed him a glass of water, and Aramis held it to Athos’s lips and managed to get a small amount of water down his throat.

Baptiste turned then to look at them.

“He is nether unconscious nor fully awake.”

“So, what are you sayin’?” Porthos asked in a quiet voice.

“He may emerge from this state spontaneously,” Baptiste answered, tapping a finger against his lips.

“However,” he continued, “if he remains in this condition for more than a week – he may not wake at all.”

“You mean he will die?” asked d’Artagnan, in shock over what was happening.

“I mean he may remain like this,” he said gently, indicating the unresponsive man, gazing at the ceiling.

 **oOo**

As the day wore on, they saw that Athos could indeed swallow, and he was responsive to touch. They were therefore able to continue dribbling water into his mouth, and were hoping to try giving him some warm soup later.

As was responsive to touch, he squeezed weakly back when they pressed his hand.

After the doctors had withdrawn to the quarters Treville had allocated them behind the Infirmary, they all three settled down in his room, to share their night with him.

It seemed strange. They were all together, but one of them was out of reach.

“He always did like to sit a bit apart from us,” muttered Porthos, his heart breaking at the barrier between them.

He went to sit on the end of the bed then, and putting his hand on Athos’s feet, he frowned. Easing back the blanket, he took hold of one of his feet in his large hands and began to massage them, wanting to bring some warmth to them. It seems quite natural to watch him chatting away to Athos, whilst rubbing away at his feet. Taking his cue from Porthos, d’Artagnan took one of Athosis hands and did the same.

It made Aramis immensely proud of his brothers, and he allowed himself a few silent moments to speak to his God.

And so they slipped into an easy, tender way of caring for him, which took them through the night, into the dawn.

It was a comfort that he was still with them, and they would care for him, whatever happened. In the morning, they were able to give him a weak solution of broth, under Lemay’s supervision.

Occasionally, Athos’s eyes would close for a time, as though he slept. They were hopeful then, only to be disappointed when later, they would see him once more staring at the ceiling. They turned him during the day, so that he was not resting in one position, and d’Artagnan began to read to him.

That afternoon, Lemay and Baptiste called them to Treville’s room and said they would like to try an experiment. They wanted to give Athos a further small dose of the antidote to see if it would be beneficial in eradicating any toxins left in his body.

“We are running out of time,” said Lemay, “he needs help to be brought out of this state.”

“Could it kill him?” Aramis whispered, knowing they had little choice now.

“Yes.” Baptiste said.

“If you have anything left to say to him, do so before this evening,” he added.

So they agreed they would let him rest for a few hours and then administer the final dose.

**oOo**

Some time later:

“Are you sure about this,” an exhausted Aramis asked Dr. Baptiste.

“What choice do we have?” he replied.

Athos had closed his eyes, and appeared to be asleep, but responded when the vial was placed to his lips. Aramis felt guilty, as his brother did not know what they were asking him to drink. He had spent the afternoon in quiet contemplation, agonising over this last dose. The antidote had saved his brother’s life, but he was unsure whether a further dose would be one too far. However, as Baptiste had said, what choice was there? 

In the end, they had all agreed. They had each spent time with him during the afternoon, to say what they needed to, and then they had gathered together as night fell.

The antidote was swallowed.

Now they waited.

The evening wore on, and they all stayed close. Their Captain joined them, and they prepared for a long night. Food remained untouched, and conversation was sparse. 

Athos was still, apart from a spasm in his hand. Eventually, after what seemed an eternity, dawn broke softly through the shutters, the sun finding four exhausted men, barely awake.

They had turned Athos onto his side during the night to aid his comfort. Aramis stood and walked softly over to the bed, leaning over and placing his palm against his face, before crouching down beside the bed to retrieve an empty glass.

Quietly, he became aware of the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. He looked up, and from his crouched position, found himself level with Athos’s face. Green eyes looked into his. Aramis held the gaze for a moment, before realising suddenly that Athos was actually _looking_ at him. 

He drew a sharp breath ...

and was rewarded with one of Athos’s rare smiles.

“Athos....?”

“I am here,” Athos whispered.

**oOo**

Aramis gently pushed him onto his back and then they raised him slightly and put pillows behind him and under each arm so he would not topple over. They gave him gentle reassurances and gradually his fearful gaze relaxed and he closed his eyes and slept. As they watched him, his colour slowly returned, and his breathing steadily improved.

It was a very happy pair of physicians who joined them a short while later. Baptiste had done his job, and now left it to Lemay to wake their patient and examine him. 

Afterwards, Baptiste called across from the other side of the room,

“Can you see me clearly, Athos?”

Athos smiled,

“Yes, Michel, I can see you.”

“Sleep now, brother,” said Aramis, “we will be here when you wake.”

**oOo**

It took several days for Athos to regain some strength. He was forbidden to leave his bed, but he slept for hours at a time, waking for short periods, when they would do their best to feed him.

d’Artagnan continued to read to him. Aramis fussed around him, tending to his every need. And occasionally, to the astonishment of them all, including himself, he allowed Porthos to massage his feet.

One morning, Athos awoke to find Aramis sitting by his bed, looking tense. Athos pulled himself up on his pillows,

“My apologies, I cannot seem to stay awake.”

“You will be like that for a while, mon ami,” said Aramis, quietly, “Do not fight it,”

“We thought we had lost you, brother,” he added, searching Athos’s face.

“Yes, I believe I did glimpse the Fires of Hell,” Athos smiled.

“That was that damned candle,” Aramis grumbled.

Aramis grew serious then.

“There is something you should know.”

And he told him about d’Artagnan; and how he had insisted the antidotes should be tested on him. And then he sat quietly whilst Athos became distraught and buried his face in his hands, and tried to get his breathing under control.

To be continued ...


	16. Chapter 16

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

Treville stood in the doorway with a smile on his face, relieved to see his Lieutenant looking so much better. Moving into the room, he took a chair and pulled it over to the bedside. After making small talk about the Garrison and sharing a glass of wine, Athos grew pensive.

“What will happen to Barre’s documents? They should not fall into our enemy’s hands,” Athos said.

“Don’t worry, Dr Baptiste has them, and that damn book of his”.

“They should be destroyed.”

“He is not ready to do that. Barre ,em>was once a good man, Athos, perhaps he was working on a panacea to cure disease. Baptiste wishes to examine all his paperwork; he has colleagues who will assist him in some of the ancient texts we found in his rooms.”

“In fact,” Treville added, “Barre and LeSavage were both once good men, driven insane by the betrayal of others. One by a Man of God, Richeleiu; and one by his own brother.” 

“So, we just got in the way?” Athos mused,

“Perhaps with Barre. His enemy was Richelieu and the armies of France.”

“And LeSavage?”

“Oh, he definitely targeted our Regiment, although I believe he may have once, many years ago, genuinely wanted to become a Musketeer, his view of us was corrupted by the actions of the Red Guard.”

“Richelieu again,” Athos said.

“Hate and fate brought those two men together. Had the circumstances been different, they could have led very different lives.”

Athos raised his glass,

“To honour then,” he said.

Treville smiled at his Lieutenant, heartened to see that that he bore no grudges.

“To honour!”

**oOo**

**Later:**

“Where’s the lad?” Porthos asked, as they sat at their table in the yard.

“Athos asked to see him,” said Aramis.

They shared a look.

“I told him what he did for him,” said Aramis, quietly, not sure of Porthos’s response.

“Well, it’s not somethin’ that should be kept a secret. The lad was brave, Athos should know.”

Aramis brightened.

“My thoughts exactly!”

Sometime later, d’Artagnan appeared, looking happier and lighter on his feet than he had for many days. As he made his way across the yard toward them, they poured him a drink, and he smiled broadly.

**oOo**

Then next day, they found Athos standing in the middle of the room, buckling on his sword belt, and they knew that the world had righted itself.

**oOo**

Aramis though, was unsettled.

Many times, he had been conflicted with his love for God and his love for soldiering. He had seen death and had killed. Now, he must reconcile once more. It seemed to be a constant battle.

Now, here was God versus Science.

Athos, an educated man, was not the person this time to discuss this with. It was too close to him as he friend had had his own conflict with God. But Athos did know that Aramis struggled to understand his latest dilemma and so he pointed out that Dr Baptiste would surely have wrestled with this himself during his life, and he suggested that he was, after all, the only one to speak to.

So Aramis sought out Dr Baptiste, now making ready to leave and packing up his books and equipment in Treville’s office.

“Dr Baptiste,” he asked, “Was Athos saved by God, or Science?”

Baptiste thought for a moment, gathering his thoughts, looking at this strange breed of Musketeer who had chosen to live between conflict and compassion.

“I have had many discussions in my life about this,” he replied, indicating that Aramis should take a seat beside him.

“The most heated were at the Sorbonne when I was training. These debates between the students of Theology and those of Science were interesting, to say the least!” he chuckled. 

It was the first time Aramis had seen him smile. He realised he was very much in awe of this learned man, who had saved his friend’s life.

“Many felt that Science and Theology should be separate; some felt that, in some ways, they overlapped.”

He was quiet for a moment, before continuing,

“I believe that one day, there will be room for both. There will always be conflict and corruption within both disciplines; you saw how Barre used the ancient Hermetic wisdom texts for his own ends; how he chose to misinterpret them? Man must be tolerant if progress is to be made. Both disciplines are powerful, my friend; you have seen that. Here, I think, there has been an overlap of the two disciplines.

But _my_ science is nature, and nature is God.”

Then he smiled once more, and stood.

“Now I must get on. May I say, without I hope, offending you, that this whole experience has been most interesting, and I have learned much.”

Later, Aramis sat at the back of Notre Dame Cathedral, feeling the majesty of his God once more.

**oOo**

The following day, they all gathered around as Dr Baptiste made his farewells, Treville held out his hand.

“We can never repay you,” he said. “Either of you,” he added, looking at Dr Lemay, who had come to bid his friend farewell.

Athos stepped forward then. He looked at both Baptiste and Lemay.

“Thank you, I owe you both my life.” He said shaking both their hands.

“From what I have seen,” Baptiste smiled, “it is a life worth saving.”

Athos inclined his head in a brief nod of respect.

Porthos sniffed and they all turned round to look at him.

“Sorry, it’s very emotional,” he murmured, eyes glistening.

Aramis smiled and patted his arm fondly.

“You know, it is ironic,” said Baptiste, looking around at them.

“Urbain Barre came to this because of Richelieu, and in fact, the Cardinal was the Principal of the Sorbonne, which gave my colleague and I the ability to counter his terrible inventions.”

“Ironic indeed,” Treville replied.

**oOo**

That evening, Aramis, Porthos and d’Artagnan sat once more for a meal in Athos’s room.

“Well my friend,” said Aramis after they had eaten, “You have your fine wine,” he said with a flourish of his arm at the bottles they had brought him standing on the table. Athos raised the glass to his lips in appreciation.

“So, you now have a choice ...” Aramis continued, a smile playing on his lips.

Athos frowned.

“We can arrange for you to be shipped to The Americas; or ...”

“We can arrange the touch of a good woman!” his eyes twinkled as he eyed Athos, who promptly choked as his wine went down the wrong way.

d’Artagnan and Porthos jumped up and began to slap him enthusiastically on the back, as Aramis smiled his brightest smile.

“Or, did you forget you said that when you thought you were dying, Mon Frere?!”

Porthos roared with mighty laughter that could be heard throughout the Garrison and perhaps, all the way to The Louvre.

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • The Hermetica are Egyptian-Greek wisdom texts from the 2nd and 3rd centuries AD
> 
> • De Materia Medica; Herbarum VivaeIcones (1530); Valerius Corus (1515-1544) amongst many classic texts on plant identification and classification.
> 
> • Age of Enlightenment 1550-1800: By the early 17th century, the number of plants described in Europe had risen to around 6000
> 
> • The 17th century marked the beginning of experimental botany and the application of rigorous scientific method and improvements in the microscope launched a new discipline of plant anatomy.
> 
> • Wakeful Unconscious State is a recognised condition. It is not a coma.
> 
> • Baptiste’s answer to Aramis:
> 
> The kinds of interactions that might arise between science and religion have been categorized as (1) conflict between the disciplines (2) independence of the disciplines (3) dialogue between the disciplines where they overlap and (4) integration of both into one field.
> 
> The Roman Catholic position on the relationship between science and religion is one of harmony, as set forth by Thomas Aquinas (1225-1274)
> 
> • On a personal level, I can trace my ancestry back to 1535 to Hampshire, to a man who was the “Keeper of the King’s Horse”. Apparently, his brother was a “renegade priest” who fled to France. Hence my interest to include one in this story. (I hope mine wasn’t as crazy as Urbain Barre).


End file.
